


A Different Kind of Champion

by TheLoneSurvivor



Series: Heroes, Legends, and Saviors [4]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Cyrodiil, Duelling, Gen, Rivalry, Swearing, The Arena, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-26 01:24:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 19,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6218158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLoneSurvivor/pseuds/TheLoneSurvivor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One might even call him 'Grand'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this to avoid writer's block. Hope you all enjoy what ended up being made. Oh, and I had a beta reader for this story (that's why there isn't as much errors in it) and she's a writer too, a pretty damn good one, so go check out her stuff [ here. ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunnyautumnmorning)

He sighed deeply when he walked out of the Arcane University and across the bridge. Thorlof wasn’t being any help whatsoever and since he knew no magic himself, he couldn’t enter the University. At least he was allowed in the commons room which a decent number of people visited every day although Thorlof, the man who he actually wanted to see, wasn’t there all that often. He knew that the Nordic mage was actively learning in classes and doing what he always did in his free time, reading, but still… One would think that after leaving their job for their friend, they’d have more time to spend with them. But of course, it  _ was _ a university for a reason, being that there’s a lot of learning going on there.

Kryštof scratched his head and frowned as he thought about the whole thing. He really should’ve planned ahead for it but the very idea of losing the only friend he had through childhood wasn’t the most appealing, even if he was gone for roughly eight months of the year working and travelling.

The archway in front of him that lead into the districts of the Imperial City, the jewel of Cyrodiil and all of Tamriel, seemed as boring and dull as Bruma had. The fine stonework was something to applaud but everything becomes simple and dull and boring when you aren’t enjoying yourself while making the memories you’d hold onto for a lifetime. He had nothing left to do and ever since he had left the mercenary group he had been working for, he was also starting to run low on coin. Of course, he could always become an adventurer, but others had done that far before him and it took him too far away from the Imperial City to be taken up on, no matter how much he wanted to explore the little locations on his map.

He slipped through the slightly ajar and barely guarded door and made his way into the Imperial City proper once more. A statue of the Champion of Cyrodiil stood proudly looking out to the University, his sword drawn and stabbed into the stone below his white, marble figure. It wasn’t an ordinary sword, however, and was from what Kryštof could identify as a katana with a finely sculpted blade, handle and crossbar with small and intricate designs carved into it. His eyes were made of pure amethyst which was ordered by the Emperor himself when one was found to ascend to the throne while his hair was made of bright steel with silver streaks that reflected the sun to almost give him a godly aura. A cloak also made of marble flowed stagnantly behind him and he also had a shortbow held up by his shoulder.

Kryštof saluted the sign with all the discipline that a guard of a major city would have and went on his way. One must always remember the great who came before, no matter their heritage and bloodline. He was almost on his way towards the Talos Plaza district when something stopped him: a poster for the arena. It showed a knight, archer, mage, barbarian and several other figures all facing the person looking at the thin sheet of wood. The arena stood behind them with its rounded walls and red banners flying high above it with sharp metallic spires jutting up at consistent intervals.

It sent an idea running through his mind, one that said he could join the arena. They weren’t averse to the prospect of new fighters and it would be something to do and keep his skills kept to where he always demanded they be. Without much more thought, he walked off in the other direction to find the arena and see just how good his skills were.

The walk was shorter than he had expected; less than an hour of travelling at a brisk pace. The arena was even grander than the wooden poster had made it out to be and was much larger in scale. Currently, a fight could be heard within the circular structure. Sharp pangs of steel colliding with steel rung through the arched building along with cries of pain, grunts of exertion and the constant roaring of the crowd with extra enthusiasm or negativity depending on who was making the noise.

Kryštof couldn’t help but stand in awe for a few moments, looking at the huge building. Hundreds, if not thousands of people had lost their life within the building. And he was going to add a few more.

A stocky man stood behind a counter with a thin set of flimsy iron bars in place everywhere except for a rectangle that shared its bottom side with the wood that held up the cage. The man himself was easily an Imperial with a bulbous nose and baby-like cheeks with an unkempt and rather unpleasant beard along his upper lip and neck. His belly was swollen with gluttony and it jigged with every move he made while his middle class clothing had stretched to accommodate. He looked at Kryštof with slight interest and clasped his hands together. “Here to see the show or join?”

“Join,” Kryštof answered curtly, slightly annoyed by the sound of the man’s boyish voice. It’s like he stopped turning into a man at age fourteen.

The man pointed a fat finger to his right which had a set of steps that lead underground and into the belly of the arena. Fortunately, he didn’t say anything and his expression remained neutral.

Kryštof swiftly nodded his thanks and made away down the steps and opened the loose oaken door before making his way inside. The sounds of fighting was the first thing that he heard upon entering the dim room. Several torches flickered hazardly against poorly aged wood while many people dressed in blued armour trained, doing everything from pushups to sparring with practice swords. Several others were trying to get a few hours of sleep in and there was the occasional few who was just sweating despite not doing anything. Kryštof guessed they were the people who were new and going to experience their first round in the arena.

Not many people even glanced at the seemingly unimpressive Redguard as he made his way in warily to avoid any damage that might befall him if he wasn’t aware of what was going on around him. The thing that people most targeted on with their vision was the alabaster strip of cloth tied around his right eye and on the other side of his head, obtained after he had lost the eye back in Bruma. He had noted that while he was still healing his eye, people, especially fighters, thought of him as weak and unskilled and most of all, clumsy. But the look was very deceptive as he had proved to many that he was a warrior worth fearing, as he might have lost an eye but he was still a great warrior by standard terms. If he was to battle someone close to the Champion of Cyrodiil’s skill, he would most likely die within a minute if the legends were to be believed.

He made his way through the crowds with good agility and found himself staring a man dressed in well-endowed steel armour. He was easily recognizable as a Dunmer as he didn’t wear any sort of helmet. He had that standard Dunmeri look of irritation written all over his face and he gestured for Kryštof to approach.

The young Redguard did so although he kept all his wits about him to be ready for any surprise movement from anyone nearby, particularly the Dunmer.

The Dunmer, who was rather lithe and his face gaunt with two scars along his left cheek marking him as a survivor, had a mostly neutral face although it tended to lean towards the grumpy side. “What is it you’re here for, sera?” His voice was a rather stark contrast, sounding more like a boom of thunder than what he had expected.

Kryštof replied with an almost equally deep voice, yet his had a distinct accent further marking him as a man of Hammerfell, although he had never lived in the province. “I wish to join the fighters here in the arena.”

The Dunmer regarded him for a few moments, looking him up and down and he seemingly liked what he saw but he stopped when he saw the eye bandage wrapped around his head. “Are you sure you’re good to fight? Your eye doesn’t look well,”

Kryštof shrugged. “I am just fine. It’s been this way for years.” He bent over and grabbed two wooden practice swords and held out one to the Dunmer. “If you’d like, I’d be happy to show you my ability.”

The survivor grinned with confidence as he grabbed the thin oaken blade. “I’d be happy to see.” He called over one of the members of the arena’s “blue” team, if Kryštof could guess, and asked him to do a countdown for the two of them.

The cluster of people who had been around the area quickly filed out and now watched eagerly to see the newcomer have his own confidence beaten out of him.

The countdown was silent, with the man who was no older than Kryštof counted down using fingers and on the final one, held his hand out flat like he was going to accept a handshake from an imaginary figure. Then battle commenced.

With lighting speed, Kryštof took the first attack only a second after the duel had been declared. He went for the Dunmer’s armpit with a quick swing-then-thrust using his left arm and before the Dunmer could react, the elf felt the practice blade jab into the clothing underneath the suit. The suit was more for decoration and intimidation than actual combat as everyone in the arena’s blue team behaved very well. Before the Dunmer could make another move, Kryštof was back to his old spot like he had never even moved and the Dunmer knew all too well that if the weapons had been real, the battle would have already ended.

Now it was the Dunmer’s turn. He flicked his sword once to test its weight and how it would swing and then went in for a mock thrust. Kryštof sidestepped like he was made of wind and hit the wooden blade with his own. The Dunmer frowned and creased his brow as he focused more intently on his opponent. He would have to try a lot more if he hoped to beat his opponent.

Kryštof took a step back and watched intently on what his enemy was doing and looking into his eyes to see the truth behind each swing and thrust of his blade. It was something he had learned in his time as a mercenary. You could tell if an attack was a feint or not in your enemy’s eyes. They usually showed all the answers one would need. He went to swing downwards on his enemy and when he saw the Dunmer’s blade flick up to deflect it, he quickly changed it to a sideways swipe. The attack hit the elf in the ribs and would’ve broken multiple bones if it had been a real weapon. All it did was make the Dunmer grunt in pain and make his anger deepen.

The elf moved quickly with a few swings to attempt to break down the Redguard’s defence, only to meet resistance each and every time he tried. The Redguard blocked each attack with ease, flicking the blade over to where his opponent moved his own and tense up every muscle in his forearm and hand when the blade was only a moment away from striking. Even on his blind side, he did exceptionally well although not as good as the side he could see.

The Dunmer tried one attack to see how the Redguard would react to it. He swept in sideways towards the young man’s right side and saw the sword arrive there mere moments before the blow could connect. The strike was a lot more useless than what he had expected with the blade hitting an incredibly amount of resistance. It was like trying to break a mountain. Kryštof smirked as he felt his opponent’s blade crack under the massive defense he had raised.  _ I’ve been trained better than I thought… _

Kryštof decided that it was time to go on the offensive and swung his blade in a series of confusing strikes all coming from seemingly everywhere at once. Right slice. Left slice. Downwards stroke. Downwards stroke. Thrust. Right slice. Thrust. Downwards stroke. The Dunmer was barely able to keep up and each block was weaker than the last until finally he heard a loud crack and a dull thud against the stones beneath them followed by a collective gasp from the spectators which involved everyone that could see. He looked down and saw the blade had broke and all that was left was three inches above the hilt.

Kryštof, smirking, moved his blade over to the Dunmer’s neck and held it there for a moment before putting his weapon back and holding out his hand, smiling warmly.

The Dunmer shook the hand with the same level of friendliness, which was a fair amount, and his was also full of respect Kryštof noticed. He released the elf’s grasp and took a step back. “Would that qualify me as good enough to fight?”

The Dunmer nodded swiftly. “I would certainly say so. Welcome to the Blue Team of the Arena.”

The group cheered and clapped to show their congratulations towards the young man.

Kryštof only smiled as he accepted the praise.


	2. Disrespect

The rest of the day was spent practicing within the pit of the arena. With the demonstration of his skills to Ser Zirron, knighted by the King of Cheydinhal no more than ten years prior, Kryštof had quickly earned a name for himself amongst the fighters of the Blue Team which he was also a part of. He was presented by a small lad who obviously was employed to serve the needs of the fighters with a set of dyed strips of blue cloth, said to be wrapped around his armour, which was no more than a thin suit of leather and purposefully matted fur to allow flexibility and still hold defensive properties, no more than an hour ago. Kryštof had more than willingly wrapped the cloth around himself in a way that to many people from Skyrim it would look similar to that of a guard’s cuirass.

Kryštof was enjoying a glass of wine along with several others who were taking some time to relax before their fights on the morrow. They were all nice people who were earning a decent living from fighting for their lives and it brought them ample fame and glory, sometimes even enough to get discounts in the stores within the market district. There was a pile of food that had been laid on a fine, embroidered burgundy cloth which rested on a simplistic oak table with two benches attached on either side. The table itself had dents and scratches and too many marks to count to show its age while the burgundy cloth looked rather new and untouched.

The food itself could have been better but none of them had the money to afford such food. There was a small beef roast, boiled and salted potatoes, sauteed onions and cabbage and a healthy amount of herbs and spices, both exotic and local, that enhanced the flavours of the food hugely. It was much better than the food Kryštof had been eating on the road to the Imperial City, that much was known.

One of the few people was the prestigious Grand Champion, a Nordic woman by the name of Alys. Her hair was shortcut and resembled the colour of platinum with a hint of gold mixed in. Scars lined her face and hands through the many battles she had fought and there was a cold, calculating look of her eyes that assessed everyone she met. Kryštof knew it was only a force of habit. Alys’ figure was more on the muscular side and could even rival some of the men within the Blue Team’s ranks and that made her all the more intimidating if her title wasn’t enough.

“So… thoughts on the Seventh Champion?” Alys asked the group without any sort of smile. She knew the other men and women’s opinions on the matter but she wanted to know what Kryštof had to say about him.

Kryštof looked at the group and drained his cup of wine before wiping what was left away with his left forearm. He blinked and saw one man tap thrice on the table to gather everyone’s attention. Everyone obliged to his request and Kryštof thanked him silently and subtly.

“Well, what can really be said about that legend? He’s one of the greatest men alive. Everyone should show him the respect he has earned twice over. Not everyone can say they saved the world two times within a decade.” The man then looked at Kryštof and nodded slightly, enough to tell the Redguard it was his time to speak.

Kryštof cleared his throat and and clasped his hands together uneasily and then let them fall into his lap, deciding there was nothing to worry with these people. “I have to agree with, er...”

“Hristeth,” the Bosmer said.

“Yes, I have to agree with Hristeth,” the name sounded entirely foreign on his tongue. “He was a great man who deserves to have his legend told by all who can speak. He’s my personal role model, actually.” When everyone gave him an odd look, he hastily corrected the statement. “He’s my personal role model on the ability to use a sword. I doubt I’ll ever have the chance to become a hero like Him.”

They all dipped their heads. Alys was the one who spoke up first after the silence. “Well, maybe not but you can sure as hell try, eh?”

“Absolutely,” Kryštof poured himself another cup of wine and raised it into the air. Everyone met him on that and they drank heartily from their cups of the average vintage. But after what Kryštof had gone through to get to the Imperial City, he could hardly complain about the drink.

The other woman in the group of five finished her cup and sighed deeply before stating her own opinion on him. “He’s a great person and a great man, just like Martin Septim had been. We must always honour those who came before us.”

They all raised their cups at that and drank once more, except for the woman who was busy pouring herself more.

The second man said his opinion next, eyes cast at the orange glow of the flickering torches rather than the group surrounding him. “He was a good man and has earned all the respect he has gained but he doesn’t need to be worshiped like a Divine.”

They all shrugged and a few of them frowned and looked away or down at the stones of the ground. Alys finally stated her opinion, being the last one to do so of the group. “He’s a respected man but doesn’t fully deserve the praise he’s gotten. He’s good and all, but what makes him so special?”

Kryštof answered, irritation showing in his voice and on his face. “His swordsmanship makes him special.”

“Pah,” Alys spat. “I could take him down with my eyes gone and my ears cut off.”

Kryštof frowned and spoke further. “Also the fact that he’s the Divine Crusader.”

Alys laughed at that, although no humour was actually present. The rest of the people at the table were starting to get uneasy by the discussion. They always hated it, Kryštof noticed from the way they all didn’t add anything and just sat there with frowns on their faces looking away from the table and most of all Alys. “The Divine Crusader? And what did he save us from, hm? Some threat that probably didn’t even exist, brought on by some old man who spouted gibberish.”

Kryštof’s frown deepened and he set his cup down on the table. A few drops of wine splashed out and hit the burgundy cloth from the force of the impact. “The threat was entirely real if you’ve even read his books.”

“And you have?” Alys asked sarcastically.

Kryštof nodded swiftly. “Only a few chapters of the second book, but I know enough from that.”

Alys, once again, laughed without humour. “Fine, maybe the threat was real. But what makes him so special?” She repeated her question from before.

Kryštof answered it quickly, his anger growing with each word he spoke. “His swordsmanship is something to be desired by any person who likes a blade, including you Alys, he saved the world twice over and was a good friend of the Emperor’s and has done more in a decade than you could do in twenty lifetimes.”

Alys gasped and so did many others. Kryštof held his ground and everyone could see the flames that burned in his eyes. There was rage there that no one wanted to face, except for perhaps Alys herself. She seemed like the type of person who would thrive off of that rage, but what she didn’t know was that Kryštof’s skill with weapons and combat only got better the angrier he was rather than the opposite which plagued so many others.

The Grand Champion stood up from the bench and walked to Kryštof, only centimeters from his face when she stopped, towering over him by several inches. “You will learn to stay your tongue or I’ll slice it off.”

Kryštof regarded her for a few seconds, seeing the cold anger there but she wasn’t expecting for Kryštof to stand his ground entirely. “And you’ll learn to appreciate what the Seventh Champion has done for you and all of Tamriel or I’ll burn the respect into your skull. Preferably with hot iron.” He gave one swift and powerful shove to Alys which caught her completely off guard, sending her stumbling back and crashing into the wall before losing her balance entirely and falling over.

Alys gritted her teeth and glared at Kryštof as she got up and sulked off to the opposite side of the arena, where the Yellow Team spent their time.

The group collectively cheered, albeit silently. Several of them clapped Kryštof on the back and one went over and grabbed a better wine from the rack, saying that no one had the confidence to stand up to her like that. Everyone knew her abilities were good, even Kryštof, but no-one as petty as Alys could scare him.

Kryštof watched her stalk off and when she had turned the corner and was gone for at least a minute, sat back down and enjoyed the drink with his friends, all of which who had a little more enthusiasm in their tones and warmer smiles all around. Even though he made a powerful enemy, he made more than enough friends to keep him safe until the time came.

His first match was in two days and he knew he’d have to do a lot to make sure he was completely ready to fight. Fortunately, he was getting drunk during a time that didn’t call for battle in the morning. Kryštof couldn’t help but grin when he remembered the childish glare Alys had sent his way. If _that_ was the best the Arena had, well, they’d have to do a whole lot better to keep Kryštof from reaching the highest rank within it.

And with the Seventh Champion on his side and not her’s, he knew everything would work out.


	3. Brawler

Today was the day. The day he would have his skill pitted against someone else of equal rank, although not raw ability. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead into his brow and he wiped the residue away with a single and quick motion. He had his trusty steel sword with him. It was a simple blade, but a blade didn’t need to be extravagant to end lives. The blade was blued with strength and it was one of the sturdiest blades made in Bruma which was full of accomplished smiths.

Everyone knew he was going to win, but Kryštof himself had a feeling of doubt in his stomach. Maybe he _wasn’t_ good enough and would simply die first thing. He shook the notion aside; he was too skilled to be taken down the first round. He might not live to see his goal, but he knew he would survive this one. He had to.

He didn’t know much about his opponent, only that they were a Breton and used a dagger as their primary dagger. From across the building, Kryštof could see no shield with the man on the other side of the ring, and as he noted that he clenched his right fist and had to rely on the thick steel plate that guarded his forearm. It was more mobile than a shield and had the same amount of defensiveness but it was all but useless against an archer. He made sure to know if he was fighting an archer or a simple warrior who used melee weapons each battle he would do. The steel plate was blued as well and blocked a part of his hand and wrist as well. He had discovered how good a defensive item the steel guard was when he had fought a number of bandits while having to use nothing but a similar item as defense. He later got the item remade in a more efficient form.

He heard the man up above watching the entire thing as he usually did shout out the countdown and Kryštof’s heart raced. He gritted his teeth and flexed the muscles in his arms and legs a little more to make sure they were as ready as he was. With an abruptness that he had only somewhat expected, the gates dropped and the fight started. Kryštof approached slowly and cautiously while the Bomser seemed to throw fear to the wind, as well as tactics, and ran directly for his opponent. Kryštof drew his sword then and stopped when he had reached the first set of pillars, waiting for his opponent to do whatever foolish attack he was going to.

The Bosmer, once he got close enough, lunged at Kryštof expecting an easy kill, going with a downwards strike to kill his enemy swiftly. Kryštof blocked the attack with his right forearm easily and swung his blade at an angle that wouldn’t kill his enemy and smacked the Bosmer’s ribs. The elf grunted and the Redguard heard a sickening crunch as he most likely broke a few of the Bosmer’s ribs. That only seemed to spur on the silly and idiotic attacks his enemy was trying to throw at him despite the pain.

The elf, try as he might, couldn’t make it past Kryštof’s superior defensive mentalities and each strike that should have hit was blocked by a weapon at the last moment. The elf’s brow creased further than before and he redoubled his efforts although Kryštof only laughed. Why hadn’t the leader of the Yellow Team said anything about how skilled he was? He pushed the thought aside and got back to the matters at hand.

Kryštof almost laughed at the little elf’s attempts, although he did feel pity. It was almost too easy to take the elven warrior down; if he could be called a warrior. He had more in common with a kid living fantasies, pretending they were the best warrior around rather than how life went. Kryštof couldn’t help but toy with the elf, just letting each attack come by and hit his blade or armoured forearm rather than attack himself. He felt each attack slow down and heard the elf’s breathing become more and more laboured and ragged with each passing second. Perhaps most Pit Dogs were just entirely awful at fighting and were only recruited to be slaughtered?

Deciding enough was enough, as the crowds were getting bored, Kryštof went on the offensive. With one swift movement, he sidestepped to the left of his opponent and swung his right arm with a moderate amount of his strength directly at the Bosmer’s face.

The blow struck exactly where Kryštof had aimed for and the Bosmer let out a scream of pain as he flew several feet back. The crowd cheered loudly in response to the change of pace. Only a few people made sounds of displeasure over the turn of events but their negativity was only drowned out by the rest of the crowd. Kryštof felt all of them were the people who had bet on him.

The Bosmer got up slowly as Kryštof turned and took a few paces back and let his opponent get up. The Redguard turned sharply as he heard the Bosmer’s feet moving quickly and swung his blade out towards the enemy, expecting to meet his blade.

He, fortunately, misjudged by a few moments as the Bosmer was farther away but still charging. A wide eyed expression of fear hit the Bosmer’s bruised and bleeding face and before he could slow down, he impaled himself on Kryštof’s blade. The elf had enough momentum to carry himself to the hilt, looking into Kryštof’s singular green eye and feeling the life drain from his body. He dropped his blade as he felt all his energy wain from him and Kryštof watched for what seemed like the hundredth time, as he saw his enemy’s eyes glaze over and his body stop moving entirely.

The crowd remained silent for a moment, going through what had just happened over a few times in their minds before everyone started cheering once more at seemingly the same time. The handful of people who lost stormed out of the stadium.

Kryštof blinked several times and pulled his blade out slowly, watching as the body sunk to its knees. With a soft shove from his boot, the body toppled over and lay unmoving on the reddened sand. Kryštof watched the crimson puddle of blood form for a few moments and then turned and left, hearing the undying cheers from the crowd who won double of the amount they had bet.

Grinning, he walked down the stairs, rinsed off and went to go and collect his pay.


	4. Luck

Alys hadn’t made a return to the Blue Team since what had happened more than four days prior. No one liked Alys for her personality, but she was regarded as a decent warrior and her presence alone caused many of the people to train harder than they had to and more often than they wanted. Kryštof and Sir Zirron had noticed that with her gone, moral seemed to improve as well as training oddly enough, but they all had more enthusiasm in each movement they made.

The Dunmer had been more friendly towards Kryštof than he had expected. Maybe it was the fact that he was skilled enough to beat him in practice combat or maybe it was another reason entirely, but he always smiled a bit when Kryštof walked over to him.

“How are you doing, Kryštof?” The Knight asked more cheerfully than he ever spoke to anyone else.

Kryštof couldn’t help but smile a little. “Not bad, Sir Zirron, how about yourself?”

The Knight shrugged. “Same old, same old.” He sighed sadly. “Wish I could be out there fighting as well, but if I ever faced you, I don’t think I’d last too long.”

Kryštof felt a little blush come to his cheeks. “It was only a matter of luck that I won.”

Sir Zirron shook his head fiercely in denial of that. “No. It wasn’t just luck. That was pure talent and skill that beat me in that duel. You’ve got more talent than I’ve seen before and the fact that you only have one eye makes it all the more impressive.”

The Redguard couldn’t help but let his cheeks turn an even darker shade. “You’re too kind, sir.”

The Knight raised his hand and shook his head. “You deserve all the respect you have earned. Even though you’ve only fought three times and are of the rank Brawler, I say you have the talent to beat Alys in single combat any day.”

_That_ surprised Kryštof entirely. “Truly? Isn’t she a great warrior?”

Sir Zirron boomed with laughter like thunderstorm was going on outside. “Alys, a great warrior? No, you’ve got the wrong person mixed up. She just has more luck than anyone else I’ve seen. Almost every battle she’s ever fought has been won by luck. Even the last Grand Champion lost due to her luck. He dropped his sword and stepped on it as he went to get his dagger, to which Alys simply slit his throat.”

Sir Zirron’s expression darkened considerably. “Everyone roared with anger the day she won the battle. Even the Gods hated it, for Kynareth created a storm over the Imperial City from seemingly nothing. Lucky, yes that is Alys, but a good warrior she is not.”

One passerby quickly agreed with Sir Zirron on her lack of talent with a blade and weapons in general. While she had skill, that was without question, she didn’t compare to Kryštof in any way shape or form. And if she was worse than Kryštof considerably, how bad was she compared to the Champion of Cyrodiil?

He chuckled at the sight his imagination made. The Champion of Cyrodiil and Alys fighting, with the Champion winning in only a few strokes of his blade. Sir Zirron guessed what he was thinking and smiled as well. “Yes, you’d probably beat her within a few strokes as a matter of fact.”

“Again, you’re too kind.” Kryštof said and felt his blush, which was mostly gone, start to come back. He cursed internally at feeling his cheeks start to overheat with blood. “When will my next match be, by the way?”

Sir Zirron grinned and grabbed a small wooden slate with a sheet of parchment on it. He looked around and spoke when he found the answer Kryštof was searching for. “Two days from now, although I have an empty spot with which I can fit you in. I’m sure the Yellow Team can supply someone of a similar rank.”

Kryštof smiled and thanked the Knight for fitting in an extra time for him to fight and went off to train. He had a rather large amount of practice that he had to do if he wanted to be the best warrior in the Arena although everyone would tell him he already was. Never hurt to keep one’s self in top shape.

He’d have to find someone to spare with practice swords if he was to become Grand Champion. He picked up two wooden practice swords and smirked while he looked at the simplistic weapons that were no more than toys in comparison to the real thing.

The search was the most difficult thing with the practice duels, in truth.

Everything else was easy.


	5. Bloodletter

Kryštof got himself ready in the dimly lit room full of trained warriors who were ready to die fighting for the entertainment of spectators and to earn some coin. He had just sharpened his blade a few minutes ago and was completely ready to fight once more against his enemy who turned out to be an Imperial Legion bowmaster. This fight would be tougher for him than all the other ones as he would have to use a shield instead of his much more maneuverable steel armguard. That, and the fact that he would have to cross the entire arena to fight his opponent. But he had fought worse in the past and this would be, hopefully, another easy victory. He made sure to pray to the Gods and the Seventh Champion to guide his way to another win.

Everyone in the Blue Team wished Kryštof luck and he smiled and walked off to enter the small unlit room with an iron gate in front that prevented him from attacking until the battle had truly begun. He looked over to the other side and saw his opponent, busy checking the arrows in her quiver and flicking the string of her shortbow a few times to make sure it was the way she wanted it. Kryštof couldn’t help but sigh in relief that the weapon wasn’t a longbow which would have been truly hazardous towards his health. The small and thin but light iron buckler would suit him just fine as he didn’t have to catch the arrows in the shield, he just had to deflect them with a well-timed swing of the defensive metal disk.

Like so many times before, sweat beaded on his forehead and he wiped it away as soon as he felt it begin to drip down to his brow and cheeks. He clutched the blade’s handle in his hand tightly and relaxed his grip with conscious effort, drawing it within a moment and keeping its blade pointed at the ground. A strand of unruly black hair fell in front of his face and he had half a mind to just cut it off, but that would lead to a rather bad haircut, and he liked his windswept style. He instead brushed the lock away from sight behind his ear and blinked a few times as he began to hear the man up top begin to shout the countdown.

Once the man yelled “Begin!”, the gates fell down in a moment and already he heard the buzzing of an arrow flying his way. He quickly sidestepped and heard the arrow hit the stones behind him in an explosion of wood as the shaft was ripped apart by the sudden stop.

Kryštof paced his way out of the small containment room and out into the open and the crowd cheered at seeing him. Ever since his first fight, he had become quite the fan favourite as he put on an entertaining show and also always won in whichever battle he took place in. Many people had caught onto that and whenever they saw his name on the fighting times, he received the majority of bets.

While Kryštof liked all the publicity he was getting and he loved hearing the cheers of the crowds, it always struck him as odd to how he had become a fan favourite seemingly overnight.

The sounds of another arrow flying his way snapped him out of his idle thoughts and he dived to the right to avoid the shot. The arrow whizzed by and smashed into one of the four pillars in the fighting ring. The crowd cheered once more, absolutely in awe of his agility and sense of aptitude within the arena.

He was up within a second of performing the role and he saw his opponent was still loading another arrow into her bow.  _ Obviously, her skill has been exaggerated a fair amount,  _ Kryštof thought,  _ normally an expert archer would have another arrow notched by now and it would’ve been flying towards me. _ And since no such arrow was flying his way, he had to assume her level of experience was lower than what Sir Zirron had said. It was probably for the best, since it meant he would be using all of his skills to completely outmatch his enemy.

Finally, after several paces closer to his opponent, another arrow went flying his way. Kryštof nimbly dodged the attack once more and knew that he would have to use his shield more the closer he got as he would have less time to react to the steel tipped missiles headed his way. He heard the woman curse and the crowd cheer as he dodged a fourth arrow sent his way.

He found the time to take another seven paces towards his enemy, making sure to keep his eyes locked on the bow and his target and nothing else. Not the crowd. Not the grate beneath his feet. Not the bloodstained sand. And certainly not the stormclouds rolling in as they fought. Only his opponent and her arrows could receive any attention. A look away for even half a second could spell his death even if it was a shortbow. He had no steel armour to prance around in, only his leathers with the blue cloth wrapped around it.

As more arrows emptied from the Imperial’s quiver, Kryštof got closer and closer to his enemy and the fear in her eyes became more and more apparent. She probably had training in skills with a dagger but nothing to last her on her own. The Legions of the Empire were made to work in groups and rely on one another and if one slipped up, others would be there to help. But this was not the case. This was one on one combat and any mistakes she made was enough to give Kryštof an even better advantage.

It was then that the most fatal of mistakes happened. Kryštof wasn’t a bow expert but even he knew what had happened when it did. With yet another arrow fired, there was a louder noise than expected but it wasn’t enough to distract Kryštof from hitting the arrow away with his buckler, now entirely useless. When he looked back, the Imperial Soldier was looking at her bow with grief and he understood why: the string had been tied too tightly and had snapped under the pressure. She still hadn’t tossed the weapon aside however and clutched onto it long enough before she had to get her dagger out, which was only a matter of a few seconds and Kryštof quickly crossed the sand beneath him.

He could see the fear in her eyes and actually felt bad for having to kill her, but it was either him or her and he prefered the former much more than the latter. He threw his buckler aside and flexed his arm a little as he looked at the blued steel armguard once more. He kept his grip around his blade loose to flick it up to any surprise movements and only slowed his advance when he was fifteen paces away.

The Imperial archer pulled out her dagger even though she showed that she knew her death was coming in the next few minutes as she looked into Kryštof’s sympathetic eyes. He didn’t like killing people who were in fear but a man had to do what a man had to do. Once he was close enough, he launched his first attack, a thrust towards the Imperial Archer and it turns out, that was all he needed. The soldier failed to catch the blade with her own and it sunk into her flesh, reaching her heart and effectively killing her.

Even before the life had left her sky blue eyes, the crowd began cheering for the victor and the roars were huge amongst the crowds. There was of course the side that was still upset over losing but Kryštof couldn’t care less about them.

He once again left the ring and walked back down into the practice room to collect his pay.


	6. Visiting

The commons room of the Arcane University was a lot larger than what it was made out to be. The tower seemed small enough compared to the buildings surrounding it. Bright red light beamed from the coloured lanterns onto the orange walls and brown floor while a singular magelight hovered above inside a golden glass orb. The mixture of bright red and orange was oddly soothing to the eyes.

Oak benches had been laid out within the large room with velvet-lined display cases holding magical oddities, including soul gems, rings, robes and books. All of them could easily sell for a lot of coin, Kryštof knew. He frowned and looked about at the few people chatting within the rounded room, keeping his eyes on the doors for when he’d see Thorlof. He had arranged to take some time off after his most recent fight some days ago to see the Nordic mage. The amount of fans he had gathered would just have to wait a bit before Kryštof got back into the ring.

For what seemed an eternity, he sat there, tuning in and out of in-depth conversations throughout the room, hearing all sorts of rumours, but mainly stuff about magic and the courses being taken by the members of the University. Mostly though, Kryštof remained in his thoughts and only when the doors open did he fully get back to complete attention of the world around him.

Thorlof walked in after one of the longer conversations had died down, holding a book and actively reading as he walked, somehow nimbly dodging and walking past everything that would prove hazardous to him and the book. When he sat down, he placed his special bookmark into it, the colour of burgundy and wrapped with gold painted velvet with three words on it,  _ Best Bookmark,  _ and _ Thorlof _ . The mage looked up from his book and smiled warmly.

“Kryštof, it is good to see you. How has the past month been?” Despite being as friendly as ever, Kryštof could clearly see the dark lines under his eyes and the weariness he carried with him.

The Redguard couldn’t help but smile back. “Good, good. Found myself a job here in the city.”

The Nord inclined his head once for only a few moments. “Yes, the arena. Heard a bit about you and your exploits.” He smirked. “Might even have to spare the time to come down and start betting on you myself.”

Kryštof laughed. “Well you better hurry, as I’m advancing in rank rather quickly. Provided, so are a lot of other people in the Blue Team.” Although, they had lost a significant number of the Team during the month that Kryštof had been there. “Heard once you become the Grand Champion, you can’t really fight anyone that doesn’t challenge you. Might have to talk to Sir Zirron and see if he can work with the guard to send people on death row over to battle me.”

Thorlof grinned and raised a hand to his mouth, taking a few moments before responding. “That’d be a good way to spend your time and it would help keep numbers low in the prison. No doubt, you’d always win each fight as you have been.” He reached behind him and, with a sharp tug, produced a coin purse in his hand. “I say I’ve got roughly fifty coins in this. When do you start your next match?”

“Probably on the morrow. If not, the day after. There’s quite a few spots left open for me to fight since we’re hitting a bit of a lack of fighters since not many want to join. We’re probably going to have to start making showings more sparse than before if this keeps up or increases.” Kryštof’s smile had waned considerably as he progressed.

The mage wasn’t smiling much either anymore, but clapped his friend on the shoulder with a partial smile. “Well, I’ll be there in the crowd next time you fight, alright?” He added hastily, “Just make sure you’re not trying to find me until  _ after _ your opponent is dead.”

Kryštof and Thorlof shared a laugh and fell into a companionable silence.

It was good to spend some time with an old friend.


	7. Myrmidon

Turns out, the fight was two days after Kryštof had went to see his friend. It was the battle for the rank of  _ Myrmidon.  _ After the battle for Bloodletter went swimmingly, Kryštof was confident in his abilities to defeat whatever opponent was thrown his way, even Alys.

He frowned and pushed the thoughts of the “Grand” Champion away from his mind. Now was not the time to be focusing on such a person, one who won her title by luck alone, and doesn’t see the reason to be kind towards the Seventh Champion. Only seven exist and there’s a huge reason for that, mainly because they were some of the greatest people of Cyrodiil. Ever.

Kryštof pulled out his blade and waited for the gates to fall so that the battle could begin. He saw his opponent on the other side of the ring, flexing his muscles and being the way only an orc could; brash and menacing. Kryštof was rather happy he was fighting an orc who specialized in heavy armour and even heavier weapons. He could simply tire the orc out and then kill him, although he always ran the chance of the orc going berserk on him.

Thorlof was in the crowd, he knew, watching to see his friend win the fight and see his combat skills. Kryštof was more than eager to show them off to the crowd and Thorlof especially.

The gates slid down and that marked the start of the battle, with Kryštof taking an even walking pace out of his small cube and walking out to his set of pillars, watching the orc barrel down the way to kill him in the first strike. His armour was of orcish make with yellow paint permanently marking it as the armour of a Yellow Team combatant. His huge warhammer was entirely clumsy looking but also completely dangerous if it hit him. Two rough points jutted out from the massive weapon and there was also a large spike on the back. Kryštof would have to rely on his agility to see him through this one.

The orc had a fiery rage in his eyes that could only mark pure hatred towards his enemy. Kryštof didn’t know what he had done to deserve the orc’s hatred but he also didn’t care, since the orc wouldn’t live beyond the hour. Maybe even ten minutes. Kryštof made sure to position himself in front of pillar as he saw the huge orc approaching. The green elfish being was easily twice Kryštof’s width, two or three times as strong and a foot and a half taller than him, making the huge being roughly seven feet tall.

When the orc was close enough to hit him in a second, Kryštof nimbly sidestepped out of the way of the charging orc who didn’t meet the person he wanted to and instead rammed right into the pillar. Kryštof felt his heart leap in complete fear as he saw the entire pillar shake and felt the entire ground shake underneath him. A quick glance at the crowd also showed they were all experiencing the same fear of the death of the best swordsman in all of the Arena. Word had slowly spread of Kryštof and his abilities with the sword and agility throughout the city and others in Cyrodiil, prompting many to see if the rumours about him were true. For the most part, they were.

Kryštof quickly darted off to another pillar, hoping the size of the orc meant his brain was the size of a pea, or that the orc would become enraged enough to disregard what had happened to cause him to miss his target and repeat the action.

The orc, meanwhile, got himself together and narrowed his eyes on his target and once more began to charge, building up ever-increasing speed as he moved across the sand. Kryštof’s mouth went dry as he realized this fight would not be as easy as the others had been.  _ Alys probably had something to do with it, _ he found himself thinking which surprised him. But maybe it was true. It was entirely possible that Alys was slandering his name and fabricating words and insults he had never said for all the Yellow Team to hear, making them all hate him with a passion. He’d have to get a confession if he lived to see the day.

For the first time since he had joined, he found himself using ‘if’ instead of ‘when’. That in itself scared him.

The orc was no more than ten paces away when Kryštof rolled out of the way, with the orc barreling into the next pillar and causing an even greater shake and along with that, there was a loud and unusual  _ crunch _ that Kryštof had learned to associate with the breaking of armour. He turned and was almost relieved with what he saw. The Orc’s shoulder had taken the brunt of the impact like last time but this time, his armour couldn’t stand it and caved under the massive pressure. The orc howled in pain as a second and even more painful sounding  _ snap _ echoed through the domed structure.

Kryštof’s guess was that the pressure made from the bending of his shoulder plate had caused the man’s shoulder to break and shatter completely. It was his right shoulder too, which Kryštof had noticed was his most proficient arm. And here he was beginning to lose hope…

An almost confident smirk found its way onto Kryštof’s face and he couldn’t wipe it away if he tried. The orc clutched his right arm for a moment before switching his weapon to only his left arm and continued to fight, although he’d probably be slower and clumsier with his damaged arm. Kryštof found that to be better odds than he had hoped for.

The orc smashed his weapon into the ground only a foot away from Kryštof and the Redguard found time to put in an attack on the orc’s gauntlet that he used to hold his warhammer. He noticed the armour dent and he backed off to a safe distance before he could further increase the damage.

The swordsman stood still for a moment as the green brute went at his opponent again and, with a quick movement to his left, was out of the way as the warhammer once again struck into the ground. Kryštof continued his attack on his enemy’s gauntlet and saw a chunk break off and fall into the sands. His opponent was getting a little restless and tried to move his right arm once more and grunted in pain as the bones were entirely shattered and fragmented, only held in a humanoid shape due to the armour he was wearing. The orc quickly abandoned any hope of using his right arm for the remainder of the battle.

Kryštof waited for another attack from the orc, completely ignoring the crowd and everything around him. To him, it was only the ground beneath his feet, the pillars, himself and the orc. Nothing else was there and nothing else deserved any attention. The orc seemed to be of a similar mindset and had his focus on the pillars and Kryštof himself. A sideways swing was the Malacath worshiper’s next attack and Kryštof had jumped back just barely in time to save himself from a dance with Arkay. Another downwards strike was all Kryštof was hoping the orc would do. Well, two actually.

The orc granted his opponent’s prayers and went for another downwards strike where Kryštof could bite through the chainmail underneath the entire suit of orcish armour. A second downwards strike which Kryštof had dodged less quickly than the times before came as well, but only after several sideswipes that he had to avoid. Both the swordsman and the orc’s breaths were coming in ragged gasps as the energy that had been present at the beginning was all but gone and in its place was clumsiness and fatigue.

Kryštof swung his blade so hard his arm hurt, but got the result he was seeking: the blade shattered the chainmail that protected the green giant’s wrist and cleaved completely through and down into the sand. The orc screamed in pain as his hand was cut off from the rest of him and his warhammer fell down onto the reddened sand below.

Kryštof gasped for breath and bit the pain of his arms and legs, forcing them to find energy from his adrenaline to continue on. He extended his foot quickly and managed to trip the lumbering giant who could no longer attack with anything useful besides his legs. The orc almost seemed relieved when he stopped moving, although the look in his eyes vanished quickly and was replaced by one of worry.

A swift chop at the orc’s stomach showed the armour to be too thick to break with his sword alone. He saw the warhammer of his fallen opponent on the sands and had an idea.

The Redguard warrior let his blade fall onto the sand and he reached down and pried the orc’s hand away from the large weapon. The orc was too tired to even attempt to get up; he just laid there waiting to accept his fate. Kryštof got the huge warhammer into his hands and with tremendous effort, heaved it over his head and down onto the stomach of the waiting and exhausted orc. The green elf howled in pain once more as the armour crunched and caved in and left a large groove of bent and thinned metal. That was what Kryštof was looking for.

He dropped the warhammer and picked up his blade once more, stumbling down onto his knees and only through tremendous amounts of willpower, hauled himself back up again. He stood above the orc, muttered an apology to elf and a prayer to Malacath to take his soul with great pride and respect, and lifted the blade and stabbed it down into the groove with all his might. The blade did what Kryštof wanted it to and broke right through the thinned metal and met the warm insides of the orc. The orc screamed and thrashed as the blade stabbed into him. Kryštof pushed further and felt the blade’s tip dig into the coarse bloodsoaked sand underneath his opponent. The orc thrashed and screamed in pain for a few more moments and then laid still.

Kryštof fell sank to his knees on top of his enemy, leaning on his sword as it sunk further and further into the sand. Only after he finally found his strength and pulled the blade out of his enemy did he hear the cheers of all who watched. There were many empty seats, Kryštof noticed. But one of the people in the crowds, cheering and clapping more enthusiastically than anyone else, was a familiar robed, sandy blonde-haired Nord by the name of Thorlof.

Kryštof basked in the cheers of his fans and then lazily walked out of the ring and down into the Bloodworks where he could wash off, collect his pay and then, most importantly, nap.


	8. Strategy

Thorlof couldn’t believe what he had seen. That was the best fight he had ever witnessed, and Kryštof was the one who had done it. He made sure to tell Kryštof when he saw him next, which would be in roughly ten minutes. This time, it was Thorlof who had scheduled another visit with his friend and he eagerly sat there, barely reading the story he wanted to in order to begin conversations with the Redguard as soon as he could.  _ When in Cyrodiil… _ would have to wait for another time to be read.

The door opened and Kryštof walked in hesitantly, looking weary and dripping with sweat. If Thorlof could guess, Kryštof had run all the way to the University. He sat down on the bench on the side the Nordic mage was facing and smiled as best he could.

“Enjoy the show?” He asked through pants as he was currently battling off his fatigue.

Thorlof nodded quickly and multiple times. “Yes, absolutely! That was easily the best fight I’ve seen! It was like you were almost about to die,”

Kryštof’s smiled faded a little. “I almost did. Several times, actually.” Thorlof’s smile diminished a fair amount as well as Kryštof continued speaking. “Toughest fight I’ve gone through. That orc… Nine, that orc was difficult.”

“But you beat him with amazing tactics, Kryštof!” For all Thorlof’s smarts, he knew next to nothing about weapons, tactics and strategy.

“If the arena were a theater and the orc and I were actors, the entire fight, especially what I did, would be entirely improv. There was only hope behind my actions, instead of the amazing strategies you might think I used.”

Thorlof’s brow creased. “Certainly seemed like you had used some sort of strategy,”

“I did. I call it ‘survival’.” Kryštof couldn’t get any lighthearted tone into the sentences he spoke if he tried. “But I won and that’s all that matters, right?”

“Right,” Thorlof agreed quickly. If his friend was fine, so was he.

“So...” Kryštof said at length. “What’s the book you’re reading?”

Thorlof looked down in his lap and picked up the book, with its fine leather case and well-aged parchment within it. The whole book had been put under intense care for the contents within it. “It’s  _ When in Cyrodiil… _ a book written by someone I think you know rather well. The Seventh Champion of Cyrodiil is it’s author; the one who got the statue in three different districts throughout the city.”

Kryštof looked surprised. “I’ve only read about two chapters of a copy of the second book. Never got around to finishing it, as it was someone else’s and they guarded it like it was made of dragonbone.”

“For how much these books are worth, they very well could be.” Thorlof chuckled. “It’s a good read, I would recommend it if you could get your hands on a copy. I think there’s only about five copies of the original in existence? Yeah, about that. There’s also about twenty printed copies of each of the two stories as well but they’re not as good as the handwritten versions.”

“Isn’t it because the printed versions are written in first person and the originals were first person, written by the Champion himself?” Kryštof asked.

Thorlof nodded. “Odd how he never states his name in the story though,”

“Maybe he didn’t want anyone knowing his name, only his legacy.” Kryštof said thoughtfully, scratching at the small beard he had been growing. It looked good on him, in all respects; it gave him an aged look that suited him very well although he was no older than his twentieth winter. It was almost like he was another ten winters older.

Thorlof shrugged. “Would have loved to meet him and find the truth, but he’s gone now. No one knows where he went however. There are also the rumours that he inherited the role of a Daedric Prince, but that’s ridiculous of course.”

Kryštof laughed a little. “Well it’s not entirely impossible. It could always happen.”

Thorlof looked at him with doubt. “Kryštof, leave the magical stuff to me and I’ll leave you to all your fantastic strategies and tactics, okay?”

“Okay.” Kryštof agreed with a grin.

No matter what, Kryštof always loved to spend time with a good friend of his.


	9. Warrior

Today was the fight for the rank of  _ Warrior _ . Kryštof steeled himself for the battle that was surely headed his way and prepared for the fight that might be the end of him. His heart told him he’d live, but his brain had doubts. Kryštof decided to listen to his heart for this fight.

He was fighting a Nord hailing from Skyrim, wielding an axe and large shield with weak armour. Already Kryštof could see faults in his movements and the way he held himself. Much like the orc from a week ago, the Nord seemed to think that his size and strength was enough to kill his opponent. Oh how wrong he was… The Nord in question stood roughly six feet tall with a few additional inches on that and he was large, roughly twice the size Kryštof was. He certainly wasn’t as dumb as the orc last time around however, as when the gates slid down, he approached at the same speed Kryštof did.

They found themselves standing on the very edge of the large bloodstained grate that sat in the middle of the ring as it had for centuries, staring at one another and waiting for the other to make a move. The Nord was the first to break and charged at his enemy with his shield raised to block any attack that might come his way. Kryštof sidestepped nimbly and retreated a few paces away another side of the grate. He had noticed something with the Nord that he could possibly exploit to his own victory. The Nord ran with a small limp in his left foot. If Kryštof could find a way to further that injury, the battle would be over before the Nord’s death.

Kryštof couldn’t tell if Thorlof was in the crowd this time and he knew he could not to check. Even a second of him turning his attention away could very well be the thing that ended his life. He focused his full attention back to his enemy and swiftly drew his sword from its scabbard.

The Nord advanced slowly this time to make sure that Kryštof couldn’t avoid his attack easily and then swung his axe in a sideways swipe. Kryštof flicked his blade up to meet the axe and blocked all the power behind it. The Nord hadn’t expected to meet any resistance at all and staggered a few paces. Kryštof saw his opportunity and stabbed his blade into his enemy’s foot quickly, twisting and drawing it back. In the Arena, chivalry and fair fighting was of non-existence: if you killed your opponent, you won and that was that. Because of that, it suited Kryštof’s unorthodox fighting ways rather well.

The Nord howled in pain and swung his axe to try and cleave Kryštof in two, although a sidestep which was no more than a reflex left the blade swinging at air and that only. The Nord was dragged with the axe’s swing and turned around, prompting Kryštof to slice the man’s back and he felt each individual rib as the blade cut through the Northman’s skin like it was nothing more than butter. The Nord grunted in pain and grimaced as he hauled himself up and limped to his enemy, still holding his weapon and shield in a well-trained stance.

He swung at Kryštof, who met the axe’s blade, putting a large dent in the poorly forged steel and leaving only a small scratch in his opponent’s sword. With a rage Kryštof hadn’t predicted, he bashed the Redguard with his light wooden shield and sent him sprawling several paces onto the large blood coated grate. Kryštof winced and gasped for breath as it was knocked out of him, staring into the eyes of his limping opponent, eager to finish the fight.

The axe came down quickly, and with only a fraction of a second left, Kryštof rolled and finally found his breath. The Nord was a little surprised that Kryštof had managed to avoid his attack and went to do a repeat with an end to the fight. The axe was swung downwards and what the Nord hadn’t expected was Kryštof rolling once more and standing up all while slicing the back of the Nord’s knee, feeling his sword cut through the tendons and reach bone on the other side. The Nord grunted in pain once more and sunk to his knees, where Kryštof, breathing hard, grabbed the Nord’s head and held his blade to his neck. He leaned in close and whispered into the Nord’s ear, “May Sovngarde accept your soul with pride,” and the Redguard noticed that the Nord’s breathing had settled down to a calm, accepting pace and force after he had said the words. Kryštof frowned and hesitated for a few moments before putting an end to the fight, dragging his blade across the neck of the Northman, although not deeply like he had hoped.

The Nordic warrior went to grab his throat for a few moments, only by instinct, before he let his arms fall to his side and with one silent gesture, beckoned Kryštof to stand in front of him. Kryštof obeyed the dying man’s final wish and kneeled down in front of the warrior, seeing the life fade from his rich, emerald green eyes. There wasn’t anger there, or fear, or anything but one simple emotion Kryštof could make out: respect. The Nord reached out quickly and seized Kryštof’s hand and firmly shook it before the strength left his hand and the man passed onto the afterlife.

Kryštof patted the dead man’s shoulder and laid him on his back while the crowd remained silent for the first time since he had joined, and watched as the victor closed the Nord’s eyes and made sure his weapon stayed in his hand.

With that, he stood slowly and began to walk off. The crowd didn’t cheer and Kryštof didn’t want to accept any praise for this fight. And, for the first time in the arena, he wondered if he had made the right choice.

It certainly didn’t feel like it then.


	10. Revelations

Kryštof sat alone, nursing a wine glass with the bottle within arm’s reach, almost completely full. No one came over to try and see what was wrong but it was probably for the best. He just needed to figure something out. One simple little question and everything would be solved.  _ Did I make the right choice joining the arena? _

The acceptance the Nord had shown upon facing his demise was also rather unsettling. Maybe it was his words that had made the man see that he was a good warrior despite being beaten and that’s why he had relaxed? It seemed plausible enough, in all truth. His words were the truth as well, as Sovngarde and the Gods the man worshipped should be prideful to accept his soul. He had given Kryštof a run for his money, which, so far, didn’t seem like an easy feat.

He didn’t know, but he entirely cared. He doubted he would sleep well tonight, if he did, it would be a miracle. Footsteps from the long corridor that lead into the Yellow Team’s barracks caused Kryštof to get his eyes out of his wine cup and see who it was. His mood worsened when he realized it was Alys, smirking in a way that rubbed him wrong entirely.

“What’s going on, big shot? Feeling sorry for the man you brutally slaughtered out in the ring today?” The mockery in her tone was the only thing detectable. Any other emotion, besides hatred perhaps, was gone completely.

“Don’t you have my reputation to slander over in the Yellow Team?” Kryštof shot back bitterly. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense that Alys was sabotaging his reputation with the Yellow Team. It only worsened his hatred of the woman.

Alys made a look of mock-shock at the accusation. “What, me? Why would I attempt to bring down your reputation to make the entire opposing team hate you? That sounds stupid.” The sarcasm in her voice was even more detectable than her mockery. Kryštof never knew he could hate someone so much.

“You know what else sounds stupid? You’re amount of sarcasm.” Kryštof said uninterestedly. He was just trying to solve a dilemma in his mind and Alys just  _ had _ to stride her way over and insult him. He knew all too well that if she pushed her luck, she might lose an eye.

“At least I ain’t some one-eyed fuck like you,” Alys said casually and leaned against a pillar near the table Kryštof was seated at.

Kryštof bit back his anger. He all too much wanted to take  _ her _ out to the ring and show her the true meaning behind the word ‘slaughter’. “I’m still a better fighter than you could be with my one eye.”

Alys scoffed. “You truly believe that, you insignificant little shit?” The fire building behind her eyes was getting more present the more he looked. “ _ I’m _ the one sitting up here at  _ Grand Champion _ and I didn’t earn that title from picking flowers and knitting dresses.”

“You didn’t earn it through skill either,” Kryštof muttered. He shifted one leg out of the table’s constrictive underside, feeling his temper beginning to wear thin.

Alys looked down at him with a glare. Kryštof couldn’t even care less. “Then how’d I win my title then, hm?”

Kryštof huffed and shook his head in disgust. “I don’t even want to waste words on you. Get lost if you have half a brain,”

Alys took the offense more personal than she should have. Maybe she only  _ did _ have half a brain, Kryštof thought with a grin he wiped off his face before Alys could realize that was what he was doing. He removed his second leg from the confinements of the bench. “You know, I seem to recall that you didn’t answer my question.” She rested her head on her arm in mock thought. “I think I’ll ask again. What’s got you, an insignificant shit like yourself, all hot and bothered? Don’t tell me it was the Nord. Never did like him anyways, too ‘Praise Talos’ for me.”

With a quickness that had to be seen to believed, Kryštof sat up and was in inches of Alys’ face in a second, even before she had time to process that he had started to move. The iciness of his eye was all too apparent to Alys and she felt an inkling of fear within her from the Redguard. He wasn’t nearly as tall or muscular as Alys was, but  _ damn _ he knew how to be terrifying when he wanted to be. “Let me tell you something and you’d best not forget it, okay?” his tone was but a whisper but it was like thunder to Alys’ ears. His voice was so cold, he could freeze a hearth as the flames still flickered.

Alys nodded quickly.

“Actually, let me ask a few questions first. Do you think this is a game?”

“What is a game?” Alys asked hesitantly. She could hardly believe it, but here she was, quivering in her trousers from some Redguard several years younger than her and several ranks lower too.

“THIS!” Kryštof yelled, pressing his teeth together almost painfully. “Do you think  _ this _ , as in the arena, is a fucking game?!”

Alys decided it was wiser to tell the truth than not. “Yes,”

Kryštof laughed, but it sent shivers down her spine rather than warm her up. “Let me tell you something. It’s not. This is real, and the people out there who bleed and die actually die. Their entire lives end and they can’t get them back if they tried. The people here have just as much of a life as you and I and when they die, they lose all of that. Every. Single. Thing.”

Alys shuddered again.

“So, if I’m thinking over the death of man who respected me even as he died, despite his painful death, you’d better not laugh it off like it’s nothing. That could have just as easily been you.”

Alys went to say something but a swift and surprisingly powerful punch from Kryštof told her to do otherwise. She felt something warm and liquidy fill her mouth with the taste of copper. She came to the conclusion that he had caused her mouth to bleed.

“This ain’t some fucking theater where the weapons are toys and we dress up in fancy getups and perform for a crowd. Answer this; have you ever seen someone return after their show when they ‘die’?”

Alys opened her mouth and received another blow to the face.

“I never said you could talk. You can answer my question just fine without words.”

Alys hesitated and rubbed her cheek, feeling even more blood pool in her mouth and the pain become even more unbearable. She shook her head at length.

“That’s because they can no longer experience this world and Arkay has taken them off to wherever they go when they die.” Kryštof answered, the icy tone in his voice was still as present as ever. “Now I’ve seen my share of death and so have many other people in this arena. I’ve seen the life drain from my opponent's eyes dozens of times and it never gets better experiencing that. They were just as alive as you and I. They all had childhoods, they all had mothers and they all had their own interpretation of life. When they die here, all of that’s taken away from them.”

Alys gulped, partially to keep herself from suffocating on her own blood and partially from what Kryštof’s words entailed. She hadn’t really thought of it the way he was, that everyone was just as living and full of opinions and memories and happy and bad thoughts like she had. She kept her mouth shut, however, and let Kryštof answer a question of her’s.

“How have I seen my fair share of death? When you work as a mercenary, paid to kill something, you tend to see a lot of death. More often than not, it’s against other people.” Kryštof’s anger was steadily building but that only meant he became more and more threatening as time went on.”Now, I want you to fuck off and think about what I’ve said and realize that if I’m trying to decide on the fact of if I’ve made a good decision here at the arena, I have a very good fucking reason behind it.”

He pressed his foot down onto Alys’ and she bit her lip to prevent the showing of her pain. She gritted her teeth as the pressure applied further and further until it felt like her bones were to snap but never did.

“I’m going to give you some insider knowledge. I hate you, ever since day one. Now, I’ve killed my fair share of people but I would gladly increase that number if it meant I could jot down your name in the list.” He grabbed Alys’ chin and forced her to make eye contact with him. “When I say, ‘fuck off’, I mean that. Are we clear?”

Alys nodded frantically. Anything to get out of Kryštof’s gaze.

“Good.” He released the pressure on her foot, let go of her chin and stepped back from her. “Now fuck off.”

Alys obeyed hastily and Kryštof felt a wave of relief and happiness wash over him as the Nordic woman made her way out of the room and down the corridor with considerable speed.

Only then did he finally feel better. Although the matter of belonging in the arena was still an issue, he finally felt he was ready for sleep. With that, he finished his wine and flopped into his self-selected bed and fell into it before falling asleep within a matter of minutes.

He’d deal with his dilemma tomorrow, tonight, he would sleep.


	11. Hero

After a mental battle that when on for days and seemed that neither side would win, the side that screamed “Stay in the Arena!” beat the side that yelled “Leave!”. It had happened as Kryštof was training against a test dummy filled of old dry straw covered in a large damaged sack of tattered and musty wool. He went for a quick and powerful thrust of his sword and the answer struck him like an ogre’s fist to the stomach.

Although, he  _ did _ have a new outlook on the whole ways of the Arena. No longer would he keep fights going longer than they needed and if one or the other died, so be it. The Gods would accept them as equals. The renown from each victory was the only thing that made it worthwhile now, not the amount of coin.

With his new view on the arena, he stood there as nervous as ever waiting for the gates to slide down for the battle of the  _ Warriors _ to find who would become a  _ Hero _ . Once he beat that, he would have one more major battle until he became a  _ Champion _ and then, from that  _ Grand Champion. _ It amazed him that he had come this far in the span of only two months. The fights were brutal and difficult as well as perspective-changing, but they were a way to prove that even one-eyed warriors could prove to be deadly.

But that wasn’t the reasoning behind him being here.

Kryštof shook the thoughts out of his mind. Now was not the time. He was only moments away from being let loose into the ring and fight once more for his life and some coin, plus all the renown he would earn. He drew his sword and flexed his right arm, with the light and defensive steel plate wrapped around his forearm and moved a bit with a light foot to make sure he was still as nimble as he needed to be.

The gates slid open and Kryštof made his usual way out of the ring, a large group of them cheered as they saw the Redguard emerge from the small room that kept him from attacking. He was fighting an Imperial, trained in the use of a rapier and shield. He wore armour only on his hands and feet, no helmet, leggings or cuirass in sight. Kryštof suddenly was hit with a wave of doubt.  _ If he’s that confident in his ability, he has to be very, very skilled, right? _

Suddenly, he regretted not bringing a buckler of some sort with him as his armguard would do little to defend against a weapon made purely for thrusts. But he pushed the worries aside and settled for relying on his natural abilities to guide his way to victory, as well as the Seventh Champion’s blessings.

The Imperial didn’t have the same cautious approach as Kryštof had and instead charged his enemy dead on with determination in his eyes. With a light jump, he soared down onto Kryštof who found ample time to just sidestep and avoid the attack. With a light swing, Kryštof sliced the back of the Imperial’s legs. He cried out in pain and moved to hit Kryštof with another attack which Kryštof blocked with relative ease. Even with his singular eye, he was still an expert swordsman and everyone knew that if he had both eyes, he’d be practically unstoppable.

Kryštof blocked the onslaught of attacks with moderate ease, giving a fair amount of ground to keep his enemy back from him. Left, left, right, down, thrust, down, thrust, right, left, right. All attacks were blocked yet the Imperial showed little signs of fatigue, aside from the perspiration on his brow.

One attack made it through the seemingly impenetrable defense and Kryštof bit the pain as he felt the rapier cut the skin of his hand. He flexed a for a few moments and then went back to fighting. With a leap backwards, he was out of harm’s way for a few moments and he steeled himself for the incoming attack. The Imperial grinned confidently and limped his way over, face contorting in pain only the slightest bit with each step he made.

Kryštof shook his head and strode forwards to meet his enemy. The Imperial certainly wasn’t making it easy to live up to his newfound rule and it might need to be rewritten after the fight.

The loud ring of steel on steel echoed through the stadium as the two warriors attacked one another once more, trying to find weaknesses in the other’s form of attack and movements, although none could be easily seen. Kryštof swung with a powerful sideswipe which managed to cleave right through the light buckler his enemy was using. Several fingers fell off his enemy and he screamed in pain and ran back a few paces to avoid any more attacks.

The Imperial looked at his hand for a moment and Kryštof could see the rage build within his enemy. The Imperial looked at Kryštof for a moment and, without thinking, charged his enemy.

Kryštof hadn’t expected it and maybe by a combination of an unexpected attack and Lady Luck being on his side, Kryštof didn’t find the time to dodge the attack and heard what happened more than felt. The rapier of his enemy had managed to pierce his armour and stabbed right through him. Kryštof stared down at the blade for a few moments and when the Imperial tried to remove it, Kryštof swiftly punched him and then grabbed his arm.

The blade burned inside of him, continuing to carve up his insides the more he moved, and Kryštof could feel the blood beginning to ooze from the wound as the gash was opened further. With a kick to the shins, the Imperial fell to his knees and gasped as his arm was held painfully in place, by seemingly a mountain. Kryštof raised his arm further and looked into the brown eyes of the man with his own, singular, green eye and lifted his blade and proceeded to stab it deep into his enemy, watching his eyes glaze over and life leave his body. He released the body and kicked it over and then turned to his own wounds.

The swords was still in him, and he should probably leave it like that. Removing it would only let the blood flow even more freely and he might die if he did so. With careful and deliberate steps, he walked out of ring and was overjoyed to see the sight of the on-site healers who healed the victors and one familiar face amongst the four, Thorlof. His mouth was pursed and frowning with complete worry in his eyes.

Kryštof fell to his knees and let sleep take him, as he was oddly feeling overly tired. Maybe that was a part of dying? He frowned and said nothing and knew that the healers would heal him and he would be fine.

He was more sure of it than anything else in his life.


	12. Health

Thorlof watched the figure shuffle his way through the door. He had ran down as soon as he had seen what he saw: Kryštof having a rapier stabbed through his side. He didn’t know much healing magic but he knew enough to help his friend. There were far more trained restoration mages within the Arena, but they had allowed him to see his friend due to his knowledge of a small amount of healing magic. Sometimes, it paid off to be a mage.

As two of the healers rushed to his aid, Kryštof fell to his knees and closed his eyes. Thorlof’s heart missed a beat. Was he to die? Is that what the Gods had decreed upon him? The healers looked at the sword for a few moments and realized why it was still in him. “He’s stopped a lot of bloodflow,” one of them muttered.

“So that means he has a higher chance of survival?” Thorlof’s voice fractured as he spoke and he coughed to straighten his voice once more.

The healer who spoke, dressed in fine red robes, hood included, with a golden bird with its wings drawn sewn into it, marking him as an official Arena healer, spoke. “Yes, but he’s lost a fair amount of blood already. It’ll be a while before he can fight again once he’s alright.”

Thorlof nodded and said he was willing to do anything to help his friend. The healer, who seemed to be the leader of them and the most knowledgeable, pointed towards the clean moveable cot with fine white cotton sheets over in the corner. Thorlof and another healer went and got it over to the sleeping quarters and set it down. Kryštof grunted as he was lifted onto the cot, even though he had since fallen into an oblivious sleep, and rested one hand around the wound absently, as if he was trying to apply enough pressure to stop the blood flowing.

Another healer took care of that task for the Redguard, taking a clean cotton wrap and pressing it around the blade of the thin and fine sword. As soon as the entirety of the blade was free, the healer then moved the spot of where the cotton was, lifting Kryštof up and putting it where a damp patch of crimson fluid had formed on the cot’s large sheet. One of the mages pointed his hand at the arena combatant and let a mass of green magic shoot from his fingers and hit the body.

“What spell was that?” Thorlof asked quietly, as if he’d wake his friend from his sleep.

The healer looked at him with an expression that was on the border of neutral and worried. “An illusion spell. It disables pain and has been crafted by Jalin here at the University.”

“You can make spells at the University?” Thorlof asked. It seemed almost impossible that such a thing could be possible, but then, how else would there be any spells if new ones could not be made?

Jalin, a Bosmer with a short, golden beard with flecks of light grey and silver in it and wondrous amber eyes that held a lot of knowledge, nodded. “Yes, they can be. Although to do so requires an entire class to do and you have to be of sufficient rank to make a spell that would prove of any use to you.”

Thorlof nodded and turned his attention back to his friend. The four healers hadn’t let their eyes wander the entire time they were speaking.

Jalin started counting down and everyone got ready, except for Thorlof. One person put a strip of leather in their patient’s mouth and one held down his arms. The other two brought magical spells to their hands and then let it go over Kryštof. Thorlof joined in with the healing as soon as he could.

Kryštof grunted in pain and began to bite down on the leather, although not hard. Thorlof watched as the wound began to heal and mend and he noticed that the skin was fusing back together. The warm, glowing, golden light went to a particular spot, where his wound was, and stayed there mostly, healing him and repairing the injuries he had endured.

Within a minute, Thorlof began to feel his connection with Aetherius begin to close yet the two trained healers seemed to have no difficulties. They were trained to have large reserves of magicka, however.

After two minutes, the wound was healed and the healers wiped the perspiration off their brows and looked at the sleeping figure for a few moments and then, satisfied with their work, turned and began to leave. “Keep an eye on him,” Jalin said to Thorlof as he began to walk off. “Make sure he has at least a week of recovery before allowing him to fight once more. He’s lost too much blood for now.”

Thorlof nodded, said his thanks and then turned to his friend, sleeping peacefully in the cot. At least he wouldn’t die and it wasn’t like Kryštof to not listen to reason. He would have to write a message to his instructors at the University as to why he wouldn’t be there for the past week but that was just the way it had to be.

Kryštof was his number one priority.


	13. Recovery

On the fourth day, Kryštof was feeling much better than he had been before. The colour had mostly returned to his face as well as his strength and Thorlof had stayed with him the entire time. There had been no signs of Alys and Kryštof couldn’t be more thankful for that. Sir Zirron had made daily visits to see his favourite combatant and had opted to give him fifty coins for every fight that would have been his. The crowds also were showing their affection for the Redguard, offering him gifts of coins and food and small bits of silver jewelry and such. Kryštof had initially refused to accept the gifts, but eventually saw the reasons behind it and agreed to have the gifts given to him, graciously.

Kryštof was able to stand up and walk about, albeit slowly. He didn’t need assistance and Thorlof resigned to just walk within a few feet of him in case Kryštof’s strength waned too much. He could also swing his blade and dodge fairly well but nothing that would allow him to survive a fight in the arena. Kryštof himself hadn’t been happy with the whole “You must recover,” advice that he had been given but would still abide by it. Thorlof was glad to see his friend had more wisdom than other warriors did.

Sir Zirron was approaching the pale figure with a warmness he had shown since he had been bested on the small duel. He smiled broadly but there was a hint of something else in his eyes, almost as if the smile was simply out of greeting. “Ah, Kryštof! Glad to see you’re up and about. Would have been terrible if we lost you to that damn little stick of a sword!” He gently patted Kryštof on the shoulder.

Kryštof inclined his head in greeting and couldn’t wipe the smile that grew on his face. “Yes, I am fine. Thankfully, I’ll be back to fighting in a week or so. Damn rapier… I’d smith it down into horseshoes if I had enough metal, that, and if I wasn’t going to hang it over the quarters to the Grand Champion, once the title is mine.”

Sir Zirron laughed and smiled broadly and regarded Thorlof for a few moments and clapped him on the shoulder. “I haven’t properly introduced myself, I think. Sir Zirron, Battlemaster of the arena’s Blue Team. I assume you’re his friend?”

Thorlof nodded. “We have a long history with one another.”

Sir Zirron dipped his head in acknowledgement. “I would assume. I’m glad you have found yourself a friend of such high spirits, even in times like this.”

Thorlof and Kryštof looked at the Knight curiously. “What do you mean by that?” Thorlof was the one to ask.

Sir Zirron’s smile faded and moved his head in the direction he was going to walk. The two friends accompanied him. “Trouble’s brewing in Skyrim.”

“Trouble has always been brewing in Skyrim.” Thorlof remarked.

Sir Zirron laughed. “True. But more so now. Some say they’re actually going to rebel soon enough here. Imagine if half of Skyrim joins the rebels and the other half stays with the Empire… it’d be a year long bloodbath at least. Some say the Stormcloak is going to be that rebel. He’s been rather discontent with the state of things in Skyrim with the banning of Talos and all.”

Kryštof made a thoughtful look. “I can see their reasoning behind it. I’d be angry too if elves took away the right to worship my God.”

Both Sir Zirron and Thorlof nodded agreement.

Sir Zirron rolled his shoulders once and opened the door to the outside. “If you’d be so kind as to follow me,”

The two friends stepped outside and Kryštof winced as sunlight hit him for the first time in four days. The light was rather blinding to him. Sir Zirron gave little regard towards it and walked off to a different part in the district. A large building was in construction, the marble floor had already been laid and there was one of the multiple pillars up.

“What’s that?” Kryštof asked. “And how long has it been here?”

Sir Zirron smiled and regarded the large structure for a moment before turning back to the two men he was with. “It’s a Hall of Fame of sorts and it’s been here for… four days now. It was started the day you woke up from your wound. It’s so that every Grand Champion can be recognized fully, with a list of their achievements, where they were born, their past if the person so chooses, and how old they were when they earned the title. There has also been room for the seven statues of the Champions of Cyrodiil.”

“Who’s paying for this?” Thorlof asked.

Sir Zirron flashed a grin at the two men he was with before he turned and pointed at the White Gold Tower. “The Emperor himself is paying for it. Not sure why, but it’s good to know that he’s taken the time to appreciate all the Grand Champions who have been declared here at the Arena, as well as the Seven of Cyrodiil.”

Kryštof couldn’t help but smile. “Well, I would say that when this is done, I’ll be only a few fights away from taking home the glory.”

Sir Zirron clapped Kryštof on the shoulder and turned to look at Thorlof. “Like I said; he just doesn’t lose his spirit.”

Thorlof could only smile in response.


	14. Champion

Kryštof flexed and stretched as he eyed the other figure on the opposite side of the ring. It was the battle of the  _ Heros _ to see who would become a  _ Champion _ . He had trained more than enough once he felt better and was ready to fight this second-to-last battle. With a quick prayer to the Gods and the Seventh Champion, he felt ready to battle and flicked his primary, blued steel sword out of its sheath. This time, he had brought a simple thin steel buckler with him and felt ready with what he was about to do. There was no way he was going to back down on the precautions on what had happened the time before.

The now entirely familiar voice of the announcer roared through the stadium and Kryštof felt panic rise in his chest but he soon swallowed it and forced himself to relax. He had his opponent’s rapier with him in a second sheath just below his sword’s and decided he would keep it as a namesake. He would probably have to give his swords names eventually. Kryštof cast the idle thoughts from his mind and got back to the matter at hand.

The countdown went by agonizingly slow and finally, the gates dropped and Kryštof was released into the ring, followed by another huge roar of cheers from the crowd. His enemy didn’t show the same enthusiasm on seeing him and went into a jog to try and reach him quicker. Kryštof kept his eyes on his enemy at all times and quickly shut out the huge crowds until his view was back to the way it always was in the ring; him, his enemy and the sands and pillars of the ring.

His enemy, an argonian with a spear and simple linen pants and went without a shirt, thrust his spear and Kryštof quickly dodged it with his usual cat-like agility. The argonian swung his spear and it slammed against the buckler. Although it made a lot of noise, nothing much happened and Kryštof hit the tip of the spear with his sword, gently and backed off several paces.

The argonian gritted his teeth and thrust once more, with Kryštof blocking it with his shield, pushing him back in the sands. Another thrust came his way and Kryštof quickly swung his shield to hit the metal tip away from him. The argonian, expecting to meet resistance, stumbled but regained himself before Kryštof could move in to attack.

“I’ve fought mudcrabs more fierce than you!” The argonian taunted. He swung his spear again and hit the blade of Kryštof’s sword. The wood of the spear bit into the blade and, with a sharp tug, the swear came free. Kryštof had noticed this entirely and felt he found a way to beat his enemy.

The next time the argonian swung his spear around to hit Kryštof, the Redguard had blocked the wooden shaft with ease and moved closer to the argonian in a fraction of a second. He jumped sideways and swung his blade up against the argonian’s chest. The argonian yelled in pain as he felt his scales being torn up and ripped off and that was exactly the result Kryštof was looking for.

The Redguard backed off and stood ready but still, waiting to see what attack the argonian was going for. The argonian decided on another thrust and stabbed the blade into the air as Kryštof nimbly hit it aside once more and, with roughly half his might, slammed his blade down onto the wooden shaft. It broke and the tip fell into the coarse sand below, a piece of the woon left on it for a handle. Kryštof picked it up in his right hand and held it along with the leather strap that kept his buckler in place. The argonian’s spear was more staff than anything else by that point.

One thought flashed through Kryštof’s mind as his eyes flicked over to the small and inefficient dagger in his hand before he turned his attention back to his enemy: throw it. It seemed like an odd idea, but one that wasn’t impossible and, no longer fearing his enemy, dropped his buckler into the reddened sands.

Kryštof went in for a lunge attack on the argonian but it was a feint and once the argonian was just settling down, the Redguard threw the leaf shaped blade of the spear end. It flew threw the air for a few moments and Kryštof was afraid it would miss and his enemy would have a weapon better than a staff but his worries were swiftly extinguished as the blade struck his enemy directly in the chest, over the heart, and the lizardman sunk to the ground, clutching at the blade.

The Redguard was thankful he had decided to chop off a fair amount of the scales on his opponent’s chest before he had thrown the small bladed tip of the spear and sheathed his blade.

Another fight, another victory.


	15. Grand Champion

This was it. The dream, the goal and the whole reason he was here. The fight for the title of _Grand Champion_. Kryštof felt his heart swell with elation as he finally could see Alys in the other containment box, holding her blade clumsily and flicking it like it was a snake who had just eaten a mammoth. Kryštof chuckled and shook his head, but knew not to underestimate his enemy.

The gates slid down and the announcer let out an unusual bellow of orders. “You may now stand on the centre grate. Do so now.”

Kryštof was a little confused but obliged anyways and Alys did the same. The announcer looked at the two people eager to fight for the title of Grand Champion; one trying to get it and the other trying to keep it, nodded and then yelled out words that Kryštof never would have suspected. “Make way for the Emperor!”

The crowd seemed just as shocked but all of them stood and watched in awe as the Emperor himself, with four of the Penitus Oculatus following him. They all sat down in regular seats alongside commoners and nobles alike who were enjoying the show. The Emperor acted as if he was but another noble within the crowds, ignoring the gapes from the peasants and starstruck eyes from the nobles and simply content with watching the battle for the title of Grand Champion begin.

Even the announcer had to gather himself again and continue before there was too long a gap between each sentence. “Welcome Titus Mede II into the arena. Hail!”

“Hail!” The nobles and peasants repeated. Kryštof simply fell to one knee and dipped his head for several seconds. Alys remained unmoved.

The Emperor stood up drew in a deep breath and looked about the crowd. “Today, we are witnessing a battle that shall go down in history. The two warriors known as Kryštof and Alys, you both have my blessing and luck in the coming fight. May the Gods be in your favour.”

Kryštof inclined his head in acknowledgement to the Emperor’s words and he heard Alys mutter, “I don’t need your blessing to win this fight, old man.”

The announcer raised his hands and drew in a very deep breath before turning to the two warriors. “Let the battle for Grand Champion… begin!”

Kryštof was the first to move, moving several paces back and waiting for Alys to make her move. She took deliberately slow paces towards her rival, sword in hand, flicking clumsily against the sand. She moved to do a downwards strike and then at the last moment changed it to a sideswipe. Kryštof moved his blade to intercept the attack and slammed his shield against her’s. Alys grunted and was pushed back several paces and Kryštof smirked.

Alys swung her blade again and met resistance. She tried once more and felt a pang of pain shoot through her arm as her blade struck his. It was like hitting a mountain, the amount of resistance he had built up. She went to do a thrust and Kryštof easily sidestepped the rather clumsy attack, hitting the blade with his own. Alys grumbled angrily and decided a fury of blows would be the best course of action. Down, down, left, right, right, left, down, left. Every single attack, Kryštof found a way to block it and completely negate the force of the blow, hurting Alys herself more than her opponent.

With each blocked strike, her worry became stronger and stronger. Kryštof was a good warrior, maybe even the best and he only needed one eye to do it. Every move he made said “I am a trained warrior,” and his skills backed that strongly. Alys was getting desperate and she began to feel the pains of fatigue set in and Kryštof was barely breathing hard.

Kryštof saw her worry and thrust his sword forwards which Alys blocked with her shield, before Kryštof quickly pulled the blade out and swung it against the lip of the shield. The metallic disk couldn’t take the pressure and split under the swing, tearing apart halfway. Alys cast down the shield and was now entirely gripped by fear. Kryštof didn’t like killing those who were in fear, but as he had said before under a similar situation, a man had to do what a man had to do.

Alys swung her blade against Kryštof’s left side and once more met the resistance of a mountain. She winced in pain as the blow reverberated through her arm and into her shoulder, causing muscles to pull and stretch painfully. She gasped and went for another thrust which Kryštof once again easily dodged, but what he did after was entirely unexpected by Alys. He swung down on the blade and, meeting only a small bit of resistance, cut through the blade until it was only about the length of a dagger.

Alys stared at the dagger that had once been her sword and used it to feebly block an attack from Kryštof, when he decided to go on the offensive. The entire time he had been giving ground and only a few moments ago did he finally decide to turn the tables.

Kryštof frowned in pure concentration. Alys was still dangerous and could still kill him even though she had much less of an advantage. Every strike must be perfect and every block must be just as good. He sent his blade slicing through the air in a dizzying set of moves, doing each stroke at random and rarely repeating the same move more than twice in a row. Alys could hardly keep up and, finally, Kryštof succeeded on surviving. His blade swung down and Alys was too slow to block it, the blade slicing through her armour and then her hand, leaving her right arm permanently a long stump.

Alys cried out in pain and saw the calmness that had fallen over Kryštof. He took a step forwards and looked Alys dead in the eyes. “Fuck off,” he said, swinging his blade so that it completely beheaded her. Her body fell shortly after her head rolled off, spurting blood as her organs didn’t realize she was dead and Kryštof gently kicked the body after it had fallen.

The crowd remained silent. Entirely silent. No one moved and it seemed like no one breathed either, until the Emperor stood up and began clapping. As if awakened by a trace, everyone else in the crowd also came alive and began clapping and cheering alongside the Emperor. Kryštof could see that even the Emperor’s royal bodyguards began clapping as well and giving approval to him.

The announcer silenced them within a few seconds and Kryštof thought it better to remain in his spot rather than leave. The announcer looked down at Kryštof and began speaking. “Congratulations Kryštof, for becoming the new Grand Champion! Now, as is the custom, what name do you chose for yourself. Alys’ was ‘Lady Luck’ and you are free to chose any name you wish. What will it be?”

Kryštof looked through the crowds and finally, his eyes settled on Thorlof, smiling widely at his friend’s victory. The rest of the crowd had settled down by then. Kryštof smiled and felt only one name was appropriate for this, as it was Thorlof who had lead him to earn the title, and said one word, loud enough for anyone in the stadium to hear: “Dragonheart.

“My name shall be Dragonheart.”


	16. Dragonheart

Thorlof had met Kryštof in the Bloodworks after he had been nearly killed by the massive bearhug that Sir Zirron had given him. Thorlof was grinning and Kryštof couldn’t keep the smile off his face either. “Why did you chose the name ‘Dragonheart’, Kryštof?”

Kryštof laid a hand on Thorlof’s shoulder looking into his eyes. “Because you were the one who lead me to such a victory.”

Thorlof looked at him with a confused expression, although the grin was still present. “You think I have the heart of a dragon?”

“Soul of a dragon,” Kryštof corrected. “I can see it in you. There’s something in you that’ll probably lead you to the same amount of greatness I have earned. Maybe even more.”

“And how do you know I have the soul of a dragon?” Thorlof asked. He didn’t fully believe his friend as he had said it.

Kryštof’s smile widened. “I can just… feel it in you. I can’t really explain it, but you’re different than anyone else I have met. Again, I can’t really explain it, but just you wait and you’ll see just how right I am.”

Thorlof nodded and hugged his friend. “I believe you on this one, Kryštof. I might not feel it, but you have yet to prove your judgement incorrect.”

Kryštof nodded and was aware of someone else in the room. They walked loudly and he could clearly hear the weapons on his waist. He turned and saw a Penitus Oculatus standing there, back completely erect and with a hardened but almost warming look in his eyes.

Kryštof regarded the man for several moments before he spoke. “Can I help you?”

The man inclined his head and looked at Kryštof directly in the eyes. “The Emperor wishes to speak to you, alone preferably.”

Kryštof made a hand gesture for Thorlof to wait as he began to walk off with the Imperial Bodyguard. Something about the whole thing felt… unusual, but not dangerous. As such, Kryštof’s hands never strayed to his weapons.

The Emperor was standing beside the large Hall of Fame that had been built with the other three bodyguards of his standing by his side, their weapons still completely in their sheaths and untouched. That put Kryštof at even more ease. When Kryštof was close enough, the Emperor spoke directly to him. “So, Kryštof, enjoy the feeling of being Grand Champion?”

Kryštof shrugged. “Well, I’m certainly happy, but I’ve only been the Champion for half an hour. Still need some time to get used to the whole thing.”

The Emperor nodded and took a step closer. His bodyguards remained where they were. “I have sent for you to speak with me because I have a proposal for you.”

Kryštof blinked. “And what might that proposal entail?”

“A job. A role that anyone would be proud of having.” The Emperor said. “While the Penitus Oculatus are just fine as bodyguards, I have always been on the lookout for one that impressed me with their fighting abilities beyond any other. And you fit that requirement.”

Kryštof nodded but said nothing. He wasn’t entirely sure what the Emperor was proposing but it sounded rather good.

“So, I stand here before you, asking this: will you become one of my personal bodyguards? As Grand Champion, you will still be allowed to visit the arena and fight for all the gold you want within it but outside of it, you will serve me and only me with the highest pay and the best house in the city. I offer this because you have a look of loyalty about you and it would give you free reign to access most things within the Empire.”

Kryštof was stunned by the offer. The whole acceptance of it would leave his future family as royalty. He could visit grand banquets, own property and live a life of luxury. “I see no reason to turn down your offer; I gladly accept.”

The Emperor, Titus, smiled and nodded. “Good, I am glad to hear it. Next week you shall start you new job and tomorrow I shall send one of my personal assistants to direct you to your new house within the City.”

“Will I be able to buy land outside of the city, where I can build a castle and village?” Kryštof asked. The house was great but the ability to buy land and make himself his own kingdom? That was something one could not simply refuse.

The Emperor nodded once more. “Yes, that you may. Of course, you would have to get all the funds yourself but other than that, you are free to do that if you so chose.”

Kryštof said his thanks to the Emperor and wished him well before walking off to the arena once more. He was in a state of disbelief. His whole life he had lived in poverty, then cast out of the role of becoming a guard since he lost his eye, then taking up mercenary work only to become the Grand Champion of the Arena and then the Emperor’s personal bodyguard!

He couldn’t wait to tell Thorlof and see what he thought about the idea. Of course, Thorlof would be welcome to his estate and home any time he pleased and he was giddy by the time he was back to the main entrance to the Arena.

He opened the doors, and stepped into his new life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder that I had a beta reader for this story! A huge thanks goes to her and you can go and read what she has written [ here. ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunnyautumnmorning)


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